Growing up I always had access to a piano, for awhile, even two. One in the house, one just a few steps away in the church. On a side note, there was also the great and terrible organ which my sisters and I would occasionally attempt to play ourselves. One of us would sit on the bench and play the keyboard while the other lay under the bench and carefully worked the foot pedals, hoping to avoid loud blasts of sudden sound. We were always in awe of our church organist and her ability to manage all the various keys and pedals
herself.
Back to the point. Piano. I began lessons fairly young and for many years continued in that love/hate relationship that all lukewarm players have with their instruments. Practice, recitals, playing in church- all of these were hateful in my book. I remember my father driving me home from a recital one night, saying that even though it might not seem like it, someday I would be glad I had this skill. It would be like riding a bike. I would always be able to sit down and play no matter how much time passed.
I haven't had a piano around much since I was married unless you count Grandma S's badly out-of-tune old clunker with its several dead keys. Since moving to Michigan I've barely even touched one. I began to miss having a piano. At times I would see one on Craigslist, but Keith would remind me that a piano could not possibly fit in our house. Unless we wanted to sleep, bathe and eat on it, there just was not room enough.
Now that we are living in an actual, real-live house with space I began to search again and last week found a free piano. I went to check it out. It was huge and heavy and maybe not the prettiest piano ever made but it sounded good to my ear. Yesterday two men delivered the 600 pounder with much huffing, puffing and groaning.
I LOVE it! It makes me happy every time I see it. I dug out some old sheet music, sat down and played. And cried. I'm not sure why, really. My father was right. I'm glad to have a piano again.
